


"I'm Really Sorry, Pete."

by xxx_Young_Blood_xxx



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: /shrugs, Angst, At one point, F/M, IT TOTALLY DID, Kind of underage?, M/M, No Sex, Sorry!, but it's just kissing, but still no sex, but when is he not, don't you tell me this didn't happen, fuck me i just made myself sad, i bet Pete was so in love w patrick, im v sorry, in later chapters: non-con kissing/touching, just kissing, pete is sad, would put non-con too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-05-12 08:45:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5660185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxx_Young_Blood_xxx/pseuds/xxx_Young_Blood_xxx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick is just a tired kid who wants to play music and he never asked for this. Hint: it's a whiny, lovesick wreck of a man named Pete Wentz.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this was done on my phone, un-beta'd by anyone but myself at 3 in the morning, so i really apologize if anything's screwed up & if it's absolutely horrible

(2001)

 

They were in the back parking lot behind a bar they'd performed in where Pete says it the first time. 

 

It was empty, nighttime, just the two of them save for a few bartenders' cars. However, the front lot was packed to the brim with teenagers' rusting, passed down Nissan Maxmias and Toyota Cressidas, all probably out past curfew just to drink flat beer and listen to bad music.

 

Joe, Ben, and T.J were inside, deciding not to follow them. Joe was probably lighting up a blunt with a couple other people in the bar as he sometimes did, and the other pair was most likely conversing with cute, underage, drunk chicks. Two encores. Last time he looked at his watch, it was 2:43 in the morning. Patrick was exhausted and slightly grateful for Pete yanking him out immediately after the last note was sung. He just hopes Ben isn't apologizing too much for their absences. 

 

Patrick asks him many " _what's wrong, dude_ "s and " _why'd you ha'fta drag me all the way out here_ "s and mutters more than enough tired " _fuck you_ "s as he's pulled, and Pete soon decides that yes, the middle of the parking lot is a great spot, not weird or slightly dangerous at all. Then again, the shadowy nooks and crannies past the safe, neon orange light of the lamppost nearby didn't seem much better. 

 

After a good minute of uneventful standing around, silent head scratching, and hostile crossed arms by Patrick while Pete rubs the back of his own neck with one hand, the other finally exhales.

 

"I'm so fucking stupid about you," he muses in a small, informative whisper, dark lips naturally pursed as they always seemed to be. He doesn't say the sentence desperately or filled with lust, more like he was commenting on a movie while it was rolling. The crescent moon that was behind and above him, the shine of it causes the pavement around them and the back and sides of Pete's hair to dully glow in a halo, stare-worthy white-gray that fades into normal black strands in the front. Eyebrows, seemingly uncombed. Nose, too big along with his mouth and everything in it.

 

And the only reason Patrick is aware of that is because Pete drags his hot, too wet (always too wet, slimy, skilled) tongue along his neck at almost every gig they play. And Patrick shivers every time, not because he enjoys it, it's that his tongue takes up the whole knob of his spine below where his hair ends in the back and it always sort of makes him wonder how he can get it back into his mouth, it's so big. His chin has got some scruff on the tip where he missed while shaving, and his jaw is stained with a small, almost miniscule bloodspot from trimming at it too _hard_ before the show. Not enough and more than enough, that's how he'd describe his relationship with Pete Wentz; and his shaving habits. 

 

He skips his presumably raccoon-like eyes because he's afraid of what he'd see. 

 

He knows he's thinking too much. 

 

 _He's gotta be fucking joking about this. Pete doesn't fucking_ like _me_.

 

When he gets the courage to look, he recognizes that Pete's eyes are fixed solely on him, expectant, and Patrick then realizes that: oh, um, _alright_ , Pete apparently wasn't kidding.

 

"Okay." Patrick says calmly, voice level and unbreakable, because he is calm. Except for the part where he's not, he's actually _so_  not. He didn't like Pete romantically. He couldn't stand his loud, uncontrollable, unexpected demeanor, his dress sense was absolutely horrid, and he really, really loves mustard which is a condiment Patrick can't really seem to get behind. However, Patrick never said he didn't love him for all of those facts too.

 

 _But_ , Patrick never said he was _in_ love with him either. Huge difference. 

 

Pete sucks in a breath as he glances away from Patrick for a beat, eyeing a forgotten, crushed Bud Light can lying by Patrick's feet. Then his gaze shoots back at him as he exhales through his nose. He crosses his arms defensively.

 

"I--" he starts, then immediately stops, eyes turning angry. Patrick knows he's mad at him for being vague. "Well? Honestly-- not to sound like I belong in fuckin' elementary school, but-- do you--?" He tries, stutters, then gives up on that thought too. Pete sighs again, grows more tense and less sane by the second, brows pointing downwards, slanted, more angular. "You're _so_ \--" he sighs for the last time, defeated. Patrick's never seen Pete so indecisive about what to say. Usually he doesn't have a filter, so he just says what's on his mind, but right now it's the complete opposite. 

 

"God, what the fuck-- I just-- _need_ , Patrick." Pete tightens his hands on his own biceps as he looks at the can once more, despairing.

 

Patrick gets it.

 

He knows it's killing Pete inside, waiting for an appropriate answer from him, but all Patrick can do is just stare. All those cheek and head kisses, half-second pecks on the lips when Pete got over-excited, tongue swipes over his jugular during gigs (ones he thought were for show), 'friendly' naps with Pete's head on his thighs, his arms wrapped securely around Patrick's waist, too long laughs when Patrick made a joke, and-- fuck, now he _knows_ he's not crazy when he hears Pete in the shower at motels when he thinks everyone's out and notices his moans are always muffled initially, but then end in "- _ick_ ". He just thought it was someone else's name he was calling out or maybe he was obsessed with the word 'fuck' even though it didn't sound like it, but Patrick had never stayed around long enough to find out. All of these moments race through his mind like the way a gambler shuffles a deck of cards, and it makes him dizzy. 

 

He wants to puke. 

 

"I--" Is all he says, can say, shutting his eyes and knitting his eyebrows together, feeling ill. 

 

He's literally going to puke.

 

Pete's feet practically vibrate, Patrick watches when he opens his eyes, his toes pushing against the roofs of his chucks fast, making the once-white rubber bubble up every time. 

 

This is quick, all of this is too quick.

 

"I'm not," he breathes, referring to the first statement Pete made. "I _can't_ ," he huffs. "'M sorry." 

 

Pete's face scrunches up into anger, then confusion, and then crumples into sadness (he's still glaring at the beer can, frustrated). The three primacies Pete possesses on his color wheel of expressions. He untangles his arms from their intertwinement, and lets them slowly, gracefully fall to his sides. His fingers effortlessly, anxiously  _taptaptaptaptap_ on the outer part of his thighs, and Patrick watches his face. 

 

"Say something, Pete." He says with all the composure he can muster, but inside there's a hurricane blowing in his stomach and he wants to _run_. But if he leaves, he knows Pete will hate or avoid him for it for a good while until this all dies down. However, Pete can be dramatic most of the time, so he's aware that duration would last much longer than an average person's. 

 

Pete looks down at his feet and shakes his head from side to side, wet eyes fluttering, and Patrick notices that he's blinking away the tears that haven't fallen yet. The choppy bangs would hide it from someone taller than Patrick, but Patrick is short enough to see through the gaps of clumped together strands (Pete hasn't taken a shower since last Tuesday). The fingers have stopped their spastic twitching, now grabbing fistfuls of his jeans. He's still. 

 

"Pete, I-I don't really know wh--" 

 

He's cut off by large, rough hands grabbing his face and pulling him in so hard his neck cracks softly right below the base of his skull and his back curves in a full wave. To keep upright Patrick absentmindedly stumbles forward, focusing on his wobbly legs instead of Pete, afraid he'd collapse. 

 

"I'm gonna kiss you, Patrick," he states, doesn't question, and Patrick apparently doesn't really have a say in it in Pete's World but in his own he does and he comments regardless, lifting his now-serious stare. 

 

"No, Pete." It's stern. "I'm... look," he says, speech a bit hard to pronounce because his cheeks are squished, Pete's grip is a little too hard on his face. Patrick grasps Pete's forearms with both hands and tugs them downwards-- they don't budge. He exhales, irritated. "You're my bes' friend. And-- and you're awesome and fuckin' hilarious and th' most amazing bass player I know, but, I can't... this, wouldn't work, man. We--  _can't_ work. I jus'... I don't feel the--" 

 

He's once again interrupted, but this time by a different body part, and Patrick doesn't kiss back. Pete tries, and God, Patrick feels so horrible because Pete's trying so _hard_ , he's kissing him deep and then gently when he likely reminds himself to calm down, and he nips and tugs lightly at Patrick's unconsenting, unmoving bottom lip, licking along the back of his top row of teeth, tasting him. Even though his tongue was abnormally big, he wasn't a bad kisser at all. 

 

Patrick still doesn't kiss back. 

 

When Pete pulls away he's panting between shiny, wet, parted lips and a ghostly color of pink stains his cheeks, his eyes bittersweet. And two very different facts hit Patrick like a soft blow:

 

1\. The kiss lasted twenty two seconds.

 

2\. Pete was not drunk.

 

Pete _really_  wasn't joking about this.

 

Patrick's panting too, softly, only because he's air deprived and nothing more. He didn't feel a spark, only a faint reconciliation of Pete's mouth over his. He wants to run his fingers over his lips, get rid of the saliva that wasn't his that decorated them, and wipe the feeling away.

 

"Patr--" Pete starts, and he grits his teeth in tempestuous sorrow as two initial tears roll down his cheek, " _ple-hease_." He coughs out a strong sob as he speaks, breaking the word into two syllables. More tears fall as does Pete's boundaries for Patrick, and he needily kisses him again, twice actually, both brief. Patrick tenses up entirely after hands migrate to his hips, uncomfortable with the motions and the fluids on his face that didn't belong to him. 

 

"Pete." He pushes a firm hand against his chest.

 

" _No_ , Patrick-- please, I'm so--" he cuts his hysterical babbling off, quickly pulling Patrick into a tight hug. Pete's legs give out, a subconscious pouting move. Patrick grunts loudly and holds onto him, slowly easing them both onto the ground. Patrick sits cross legged, and Pete childishly has his arms wrapped around Patrick's waist, his face pressed into his stomach. They're in the middle of a dimly lit bar parking lot at three in the morning, Patrick is seventeen years old, and Pete Wentz is the most stressful person and thing in his life right now. 

 

"Pete, I can't." He repeats lowly as he places a hand on the back of Pete's head, his face unseeable. "I'm sorry. I don't feel the same."

 

He swallows Pete's taste inattentively and licks his lips, very faintly tasting chocolate and salt from the Hershey's kisses and pretzels Pete had pre-show. It's stuffy outside (no wind, Patrick notices, sort of strange for Chicago in the spring), especially now that Pete's clinging to him. He was always a furnace, always hot. Patrick starts to perspirate on his hairline, his cap long ago knocked down onto the ground. 

 

Pete's always been a quiet crier, so Patrick doesn't hear him sob. None of them ever do actually; T.J, Joe, and Ben are oblivious when he breaks down in the back of the van until they see shaking shoulders. He doesn't do it a lot, only when he "misses home". Patrick thinks he's hiding something, because people don't just outright sob every other week when they can't see their mom, but he doesn't know what. However Patrick knows that Joe knows though, because he never freaks out when Pete cries like that, only tells T.J or Patrick to take over driving and asks him whispered questions no one else can hear. Joe and Pete, they've known each other for longer, but everyone always says that Patrick is Pete's world already, even though they've been friends with each other for only a little over a year. But Patrick knows this is a fact now, just by looking down at the sputtering, crumpled, runny-nosed joke of an adult in his lap. 

 

Pete looks up at him later on, calmer, dewdrops settled in his brown lashes, and behind those are bloodshot eyes that look so sad that Patrick lets himself thumb away a stray tear running down a pink cheek, comforting; couldn't hurt.

 

"I'm really sorry, Pete."

 

Pete dabs the drops away from his eyelashes with his hoodie sleeve, swallowing thickly. He sits up, letting go of Patrick and gradually reaching over a few feet away to take Patrick's forgotten trucker hat into his hands. Pete stares at it longingly, woefully, thumbing at the worn bill, and he speaks as he breathes out in a whisper. 

 

"Me too."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Y'know, you don't look like you're about t'kill me when you're sleeping," he muses to Patrick, but focuses his eyes on the road. 
> 
> "So you're already like, ten times better."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did write one more chapter after this one, but I'll end up posting it later only if you guys would want me to. Sadly though, I've given up after that last chapter because I'm onto new stories. If one of you would want to write a sequel however, I'd gladly give you permission to! Just ask first please! :)

(2003)

 

_there were nights between yellow lines_

 

_when i confessed to you riding shotgun underneath the purple skies..._

 

Judging by the sky above them, Pete thinks it's about, say, six PM.

 

When he glances at the built-in clock in the van though, it conveys 8:56; which looks like 9:56, because one of the dark gray, blocky lines doesn't show up anymore.

 

He sneers to himself-- he's going with six. Carries more of a pleasing aesthetic with it considering the swirling colors above them: a child's painting. There's a hot pink and orange sherbet hue in the way, way distance, signalling that it's three in the morning somewhere. The division above them where the sunburned pink and bruised purple kissed the last blues of the sky held a piña colada pigment to it: not quite white, not quite a pale yellow either.

 

It all mashes together to form something pretty, something worth staring at for at least a few good seconds, which is-- _bad because_   ** _fuck_** \--!

 

Pete swerves out of the other lane, thankful there aren't any other cars out here on the lonely two lane road in Wisconsin.

 

Then again, he wonders about the amount of cars actually _used_ in Wisconsin anyway, and snorts in a whisper to himself.

 

Keeping his gaze on the twin yellow lines separating him from getting into a head-on collision for a record-breaking minute, he starts to gawk again.

 

The sun's gone, sleeping, and the croissant-esque moon is out, a comfort and a trigger to him. Good things happen at night. But the bad things do, too.

 

Pete kind of wants some food right now, which would make sense after equating the moon to a pastry. He sighs softly, slumping slightly in his seat-- a dangerous movement for someone his size --and steps on the gas. A neon blue informational sign catches his eye, and he barely needs to glance at it to recognize that the next Holiday Inn and Denny's is some sixty to eighty miles up the road.

 

Smothered cheese fries, bacon cheddar burger, country-fried steak, mashed potatoes and the ol' dine and dash, here he comes.

 

A small snore comes from the passenger seat and he blinks to look at the hatless teen, his cap knocked off either from shifting in his sleep or Pete teasingly tapping persistently at it when he was awake about a half hour ago.

 

"Hey," he calls softly to him, noticing the smell of Joe's stash in the back being opened because of how dank the van smells now, so he opens Patrick's window. Not because he doesn't like the scent, he could care less, really, but the weather's warm and the wind is chilly in just the right way, and it pushes back the kid's greasy hair from his forehead like he never does.

 

Upon seeing that Patrick doesn't wake up, he frowns, like the other should always be Pete's Batman, coming whenever he signals for him.

 

Joe falls asleep shortly after most likely finishing that blunt he and Pete were sharing earlier this afternoon, where they stopped in Calumet County for gas from one of those super old pumps. Just to make the cows seem more interesting and the people look less like farm animals.

 

Andy's presumably bundled up in his army green wool blanket that's been branded as his, because no matter what weather they're driving in, that dude always has to use it when he sleeps. Joe's passed out, his head lolled back and snoring like he always does, and Patrick, well.

 

Patrick looks like a baby. And not in the wimpy sense, just... his sleeping face is precious. Pete's used to seeing furrowed brows and rolling eyes and a doting smirk, not pouty lips and dark blond lashes that rest contently on the bags under his eyes.

 

Fuck.

 

He glances behind him: Andy slumbering away underneath his emergency survivor blanket, and Joe with his jaw slack and mouth wide enough to throw small bits of Cheetos into-- something they've done before.

 

Pete hums, just to make a sound, and turns on the radio to one of the limited stations great Wisconsin has to offer. Danzig's ' _Mother_ ' comes on and he huffs amusedly, looking to Patrick and realizing that they'd probably harmonize together if he were awake, then turns it to another, to a song he can enjoy by himself. ' _Victim of Love_ ' enters his ears and he purses his lips, but allows it to stay, to flow through the car on the lowest volume and out the windows, sending badly wrapped angst to the ten other cars in Badger State.

 

"Y'know, you don't look like you're about t'kill me when you're sleeping," he muses to Patrick, but focuses his eyes on the road.

 

"So you're already like, ten times better." Pete hums, thoughtful.

 

"...Ah." He scoffs, sighing through somewhat flared nostrils. "Fuck it. You're always great."

 

He looks to the sky again, as if someone would be glaring down from it at his weird antics. Nothing but questionable, artsy colors stretched out above the fields and cows and the occasional farmhouse around them.

 

_I heard about you and that man..._

 

Pete's ear wiggles at that line, and he chuckles sadly, nervous.

 

"Hey, remember when I said I was like, in l-- when... I said I liked you?" He mumbles, smiles, but it's bitter. "Guess it's good now that I... don't..." Pete trails off, and swallows.

 

He thinks back to it, how Patrick was just enough on the empathetic side for Pete to seem like he was someone still worth taking time to enjoy romantically. That he cared about Pete as Pete did for Patrick.

 

"Fuck." He laughs, shaky. "God, I'm such a fucking idiot."

 

"...Wonder if you'd punch me if I told you I still am. _Do_." Pete corrects, stares at the road, squinty-eyed and jaw clenched, guarded despite no one listening to him.

 

"You probably would, though. Fucking pussy move of me to tell you while you're sleepin', I guess, but-- it's better than losing you. Or fighting with you."

 

Pete blinks to the sky again. Clear of any judgment.

 

"And you wonder who I write all our songs about? So fucking _dense_ , dude--" he sighs, his voice still crackly and soft from not talking for many previous hours. "'Cause, like, yeah, Jeanae and Morgan were some, but, god. The good ones are always you. They're always _for_ you."

 

Pete laughs to himself, punches the top circumference of the steering wheel with the side of his fist, obviously doesn't notice Patrick blink in surprise. He's been awake ever since the small greeting Pete gave him before. One becomes a light sleeper when on the road with three other rowdy teenagers who love the occasional prank, some-- _one_ \--more than others.

 

"I fucking love a nineteen year old who has the worst girlfriend in the world for him," he laughs, harsh, "and I can't say shit about it."

 

Patrick's a little, well, _offended_ at that, but it's not like he can speak up without giving himself away. Pete probably wouldn't talk to him for a week.  
Pete huffs, speeding down the road.

 

"...Why the hell is it you?"

 

Patrick feigns sleep when he recognizes Pete turning his confused, irritated head towards him, and he can't see it, but the other reaches for him slowly with one free hand, then stops, and in a stuttering motion, pulls his arm back.

 

"I'm never gonna be the same 'cause of you. It's all your fucking fault."

 

Okay, rude.

 

"I fucking love you, and--"

 

"Stop talking to y'erself." Patrick grumbles, plays it off like he wasn't listening in the first place, slapping his best friend's thigh blindly as the man simultaneously swerves the van out of surprise.

 

" _How_ \--" Pete croaks, his leg jerking under the hand, " _when did you wake up_ \--"

 

"Just now, dumbass." Patrick's voice is rough, but it's not from sleeping. "When's the next food place? Starving." He says, his tone shockingly nonchalant even though he wants to punch Pete like the other said he'd want to. Just because he needs to _get_ that _Patrick isn't for him_. If Patrick were gay... maybe. But, he's not, he has Anna, and Pete has Jeanae, and Pete's just a goddamn asshole.

 

Pete swallows, his stomach churning, takes almost a full minute to say, "'bout an hour", and Patrick nods, returning to his comfortable warm spot, feeling a bit numb. Guilty.

 

_Victim of love, now you're a victim of love; what kind of love have you got?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the first two lines were taken from Pete's old livejournal account, where he posted old thoughts, answered questions, wrote poems, etc. 
> 
> let me know if you guys would like to see the last chapter!

**Author's Note:**

> sorry :(


End file.
